


Wild Roses

by epsilonargus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-01 02:32:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15764805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epsilonargus/pseuds/epsilonargus
Summary: Neville thinks Blaise is just like a wild rose - undeniably beautiful, but full of thorns. That's fine, because plants are his specialty, and Neville will take Blaise, thorns and all.





	Wild Roses

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, prompter, for such an inspiring prompt! I wish I had more time to develop this story a little more, but I'm happy with how this story turned out. Thank you so much to my beta K for bearing with me through the numerous changes too :) And I hope you have fun reading this piece too. I've never written a Neville/Blaise piece before, but this is an interesting pairing to explore! Maybe I could write more of them in the future, when I have the time.

**_i. ivy_ **

 

They are thrown together the way groups of friends mesh when someone becomes friendly with someone else from the other group.

It’s Hermione and Pansy in their case. They are roommates, and by the end of their first month as eighth years, the Gryffindors and Slytherins are hanging out together nearly everyday in the eighth-year common room. By the end of the second month, their mixed cohort more frequently refers to themselves as “eighth years” rather than by House; _we’re too old for House politics,_ Hermione said with exaggerated weariness once. _We have NEWTs to study for,_ the rest of them chimed in before she could complete her sentence. _We_ know _, Hermione!_

In their group of closer friends, Neville and Blaise are the only two taking NEWT-level Herbology. Neville, because he wants to be a Herbologist; Blaise, because Herbology is one of the few subjects he isn’t abysmal at. Neville notices how Blaise struggles, and one afternoon after a particularly challenging double Herbology, he shyly offers to help him.

‘Would you, mate?’ Blaise says with some relief. ‘Merlin, you would be doing me a great favour. I have no bloody clue how I’m going to successfully breed my mallowsweet at this rate.’

‘Yeah, it won’t be much trouble,’ Neville says with a grin. ‘My moondew grows in pretty much the same conditions as mallowsweet – we’ll be growing them in the same greenhouse anyway. How are you coming along with your research?’

Blaise grimaces. ‘Terrible.’

They fall into easy conversation as they make their way to the Great Hall for dinner – a fact that surprises Neville more than it does Blaise. The only thing Neville knows about the other boy is that he has a famously beautiful witch for a mother. He does not perform exceptionally well in class, and he isn’t part of any club. His only distinction, it seems, is the fact that he didn’t take part in the meaner tricks pulled on the Gryffindors by the Slytherins led by Draco Malfoy.

Neville also knows that the girls find Blaise fit, with his smooth dark skin, tall and broad-shouldered build, and full, pouty lips. Having seen the bloke in the showers, he knows for a fact that Blaise has perfectly sculpted pecs and abs – much to Ron and Dean’s outspoken jealousy. Blaise certainly knows he’s attractive, but he hardly ever uses it to his advantage. He minds his own business, and the only people Neville ever sees him talk to on a regular basis are Pansy and Theodore Nott.

It takes a while before Neville judges it appropriate for him to probe. It has been three months since they started studying together, something that caused Ron to sputter in outrage that _he_ was not about to start pairing off with Theo Nott just because Neville and Blaise, and Harry and Draco have paired off. _I’m quite certain the reason Neville and I are spending time together is rather different from Harry and Draco’s,_ was Blaise’s amused response. Hermione and Pansy laughed while Neville and Ron swapped confused looks.

Bemusement is on his mind as he studies the boy sitting across from him in the library. He doesn’t realise he’s staring until Blaise looks up from his thick, dusty tome and meets Neville’s eyes.

‘Is there something on my face, Longbottom?’ he asks, eyebrows raised, smirking.

Neville flushes, looking down at his notes. There is a large inkblot where he rested his quill. _Blast!_ It’s murder trying to siphon off the blot from the rest of his notes. Blaise snorts.

‘Hand it over. I’m brilliant at removing stains – it’s a strange, but useful gift to have,’ he says, holding out a hand.

‘Thanks, mate,’ Neville says, abashed, as he passes him the parchment. ‘I’m not patient enough and I always end up removing half my notes. It’s so frustrating.’

‘Thank Merlin I’m here then,’ Blaise says absently, his head bent over the parchment as he swirls his wand above the inkblot in minute circles; little by little, the dark ink dissipates, the spot growing smaller. ‘So, was there something on my face? Or were you just staring off into the air? What were you thinking about?’

‘How good-looking you are,’ Neville blurts.

Blaise’s wand tip jerks and he nearly rips a hole in the parchment. He looks up quickly, his face slack with astonishment. ‘I didn’t know you’re bent.’

‘I’m not!’ Neville yelps, his face blazing hot with embarrassment. ‘That’s not what I meant! I meant that in a completely objective way! I’m not bent, I don’t find you attractive – no, I mean, you _are_ attractive, but you’re not attractive to _me_ , because I’m not into blokes – Morgana, do I make sense? I was only thinking about how the girls are always talking about how fit you are, and I just wondered why you don’t have a girlfriend. That’s – that’s all, really …’

He trails off, watching Blaise’s face anxiously, hoping that his new friend doesn’t really think he’s queer and has a crush on him. Merlin’s balls, how bloody awkward would that be? Blaise, whose face went blank during Neville’s ramble, smiles, and he says teasingly, ‘You’re wondering about _my_ girlfriend? I could ask the same of you, Longbottom.’

Neville’s tension melts away, and he slumps back in his seat, drawing a leg up on his chair. Blaise looks back down at the parchment and resumes his spellwork.

‘Me?’ Neville scoffs. ‘What about me? Why would anyone think I should have a girlfriend? Have you _met_ me? I’m ruddy hopeless.’

‘Hopeless?’ Blaise echoes. ‘Are you mad? You’re one of the war heroes! You’re friends with the Golden Trio. You’re doing pretty well in school, and people like you. And you’re not so bad looking yourself,’ he flashes Neville a smirk. ‘What are you talking about? You can very easily get with any girl in this school.’

Neville feels hot and itchy, despite it being mid-January and the library being a large, drafty place. He shakes his head vehemently.

‘I’m not interested in that,’ he says, waving the topic aside. ‘I’m asking about _you_. Before this year, I didn’t know much about you. You’re very quiet, but … you’re not exactly like that, are you? I mean, when we’re alone, when we study together, you’re … different. You talk more, and you’re very funny – you’re not like this when we’re with the others. I just … I can’t figure out why.’

Blaise is frowning over the last bit of ink splatter. It takes him a few long seconds to Vanish the rest of it, and he looks up, handing the parchment back to Neville. His expression is thoughtful.

‘Maybe it’s because I’m comfortable with you,’ he says. ‘I can be myself when it’s only the two of us.’

‘Oh.’ Neville blushes with pleasure, looking down at his cleaned parchment. ‘You know, Harry and Ron are best mates, and Dean and Seamus are paired off together too. I’m … I’m always left out, I suppose. I don’t have someone that I know I’ll definitely be paired off with – someone’s immediate first choice in a sense. This sounds so terribly childish, but …’ he shrugs, grinning sheepishly. ‘Thank you. It’s nice to hear I have a mate in you.’

Blaise returns his grin. ‘I’ve never had a proper best mate either. And I don’t have any siblings.’

 _Best mate._ Pleasure floods Neville’s chest. ‘You ever wanted a brother or a sister? I reckon I would have liked a sister myself.’

‘Sister?’ Blaise raises his eyebrows. ‘Salazar, why would you want a _sister_?’

As they debate the merits of a sister versus a brother, Neville forgets his mortification that Blaise thought for a split second that he was gay. He doesn’t think that it really matters, stuff like sexuality, because he wasn’t lying when he said he’s not interested in romance and relationships. What he wants right now is to get his six NEWTs (with an O in Herbology, of course) and find a good Master programme to enrol in.

He doesn’t realise that the things he aren’t interested in might mean more to others – until he stumbles upon Blaise and Theodore Nott in the gardening shed one afternoon.

It is only a brief glance, but the image is burned into Neville’s mind: Blaise on his knees in front of Nott, whose trousers are down at his knees; Blaise’s cheeks hollowed as he sucks on Nott’s cock; Blaise moving his hand up and down furiously on his own cock; and Blaise’s eyes, focus and determination transmuting into shock and horror when his eyes meet Neville’s.

Neville spins around, the door slamming shut behind him. He’s running before he realises that he is. His legs are taking him away from the gardening shed, across the lawn and towards the Forbidden Forest, where there aren’t likely to be people and he can be alone with his thoughts. He feels as if he has been hit by a Bludger straight to the face; he is completely blindsided.

He stumbles to a stop behind a massive pine tree a little ways into the forest, his breath rasping in his chest as he gulps down lungfuls of air. He drops his schoolbag, mopping his sweaty face with his sleeve, and slides down to the ground against the tree trunk.

‘Bollocks,’ he whispers into his hands, squeezing his eyes shut and willing the image of Blaise’s flushed face away. ‘ _Bloody hell_.’

He didn’t think – hadn’t thought – still cannot believe what he saw. Blaise – bent? And he’s with _Nott_? Theodore Nott, another Slytherin who hangs out in the shadows of more prominent characters like Draco and Pansy. What does Neville know about Nott? Nothing, besides him being quiet and good at Transfiguration. Well, he knows what Nott’s cock looks like now. He grimaces, nauseated.

He presses his fists against his forehead, taking deep, slow breaths. His heartbeat is slowing; he’s calming down. He’s shocked more than anything. It didn’t occur to him _at all_ that Blaise is doing things like _that_. Of course he knows that sex is something people do, but Blaise hasn’t given him any indication that _he_ does. Merlin, he didn’t even tell Neville that he’s together with Nott!

Neville sees now how naïve he has been, assuming that everybody must be living his or her lives like him. He remembers their conversation in the library, when Blaise thought he was gay. He frowns, trying to recall if he has said anything offensive or homophobic. He bloody well hopes not – making Blaise feel as if he might be rejected because of his sexuality is the last thing Neville wants.

Also, isn’t it bleeding embarrassing? For Neville to have seen it, and for Blaise for being caught. Neville groans aloud, carding his fingers through his hair. He wishes he could forget what he has seen; he really could have gone on with his life without having seen his friend’s dick. How does he face Blaise now?

‘Merlin’s balls,’ Neville mutters and immediately blushes because his words conjure the image of Blaise and Nott.

He rubs his face vigorously. Well, there is no getting around it, is there? He’s hardly likely to Obliviate himself. He’s just going to have to suck it up and carry on. Might as well have a chat with Blaise later, just to make sure that everything will be fine between them.

But he can’t find him – not after dinner, not in the common room where their group usually mucks around, not in the library. He doesn’t find Blaise that night, and not the next day, because Blaise bunks Herbology. Somehow, an entire week passes by and Neville cannot seem to find Blaise – not even in his dorm room, which he shares with Draco.

‘You don’t know where he is?’ Neville repeats, staring in frustration at the blonde boy stretched out on his bed, a book open on his lap.

‘No,’ Draco sighs. ‘Just like how I didn’t know where he was last night – or two nights – _or_ three nights ago. He hasn’t been sleeping in his bed for the past week. I see him in class, but other than that …’ He shrugs. ‘I think he’s busy studying. Have you checked the library?’

‘Yes!’ Neville shouts, and seeing Draco’s raised eyebrows, softens his tone. ‘Sorry, it’s just that … I think he’s avoiding me.’

Draco looks intrigued. He closes his book and sits up, folding his legs beneath him. ‘Why? What happened?’

Neville sighs irritably, running his hand through his hair. He hasn’t told anybody what he saw, and he doesn’t want to. Blaise must have kept quiet about it for a reason – which Neville doesn’t know because he hasn’t been able to talk to the prat.

‘Nothing happened,’ he mutters. ‘Thanks anyway, Draco. I shan’t disturb you anymore. Let me know if he comes back, yeah?’

‘Sure …’ Draco says thoughtfully. ‘But you know … Blaise keeps to himself most of the time. Even though we’ve been in the same House for the past seven years, I don’t know him very well. I have to say I was surprised that the two of you get along so well.’

‘Yeah, well … I’m surprised too,’ Neville admits. ‘But … I like spending with him. He’s a good mate.’

Draco is frowning, drumming his fingers on top of his bedspread. ‘That’s … nice to hear.’

‘Well, there’s Harry and you, isn’t there?’ Neville points out with a grin. ‘The two of you are leading by example, I would say.’

The other boy rolls his eyes. ‘It wasn’t so much Potter _and_ I – he was the one who insisted on a truce, forced me to talk to him. Who am I say no to the Saviour of the Wizarding World?’

Neville snorts, heading for the room door. ‘Don’t try to lie to me – you’ve always had a thing for Harry, haven’t you? When we were younger, you’d only make fun of the rest of us when Harry was around. You weren’t interested in being a bully unless it got you his attention.’

He pulls open the door to see Harry on the other side, hand poised to knock and a surprised look on his face. The blush on his cheeks tells Neville that he heard when he said, and in light of the revelation about Blaise and Nott, Neville understands why Hermione and Pansy are so amused by Harry and Draco spending time together.

‘Oh, hey, Harry,’ he says nonchalantly, giving his friend a pat on the shoulder. ‘Was just looking for Blaise.’

‘I think I saw him in the south wing,’ Harry says.

‘Oh,’ Neville says with some surprise. There is a tiny, hidden courtyard in that wing, which is _his_ secret hideout – he showed it to Blaise once. ‘Great – thanks for telling me, mate! Good night then. See you, Draco!’

Blaise is indeed in the courtyard, sitting in the dry bowl of the cracked, disused fountain. Instead of sparkling water, the nymph topping the fountain is wreathed in hanging ivy, the bowl she used to pour water from long gone. Blaise is nestled amidst the ivy, his eyes closed as he tips his head back, holding a Muggle cigarette to his mouth.

He looks up at the sound of Neville clambering through the window that is the only entrance to the courtyard. He sighs, blowing out smoke and stubbing out his cigarette. Neville is disturbed to see the resigned look on Blaise’s face as he approaches. Why does his friend look so distant? He perches tentatively on the fountain ledge, his fists clenched nervously. Blaise drops his gaze and begins to pick at ivy leaves.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ Neville says.

‘I know, Pansy told me,’ Blaise says tonelessly. ‘Well, you’ve found me, Longbottom. What do you want?’

‘I …’ Neville is flummoxed. What does he want? What does Blaise mean by that? ‘I … I haven’t seen you in a week. I was worried. Where have you been?’

‘The Hospital Wing,’ Blaise replies with a shrug. ‘I’ve been down with a cold.’

‘ _Oh_. Why – why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Did I have to?’

‘Well … yes. You would tell your friends if you were sick, wouldn’t you? So that we could visit you in the Hospital Wing.’

Blaise begins examining his fingernails. ‘I didn’t think you would be interested in doing so. _Are_ you still friends with this disgusting little bum-boy?’

Neville’s hand flies to his chest. It feels almost as if Blaise has fired a Stinging Hex right into his chest. ‘What?’ is the only thing he manages to say.

The other boy looks up, his face devoid of emotions. ‘You think I’m filthy, don’t you? Sucking cock in the gardening shed. Yes, Longbottom, I’m _bent_. I’m a big fucking poofter. How does it feel now to know that you find _me_ attractive? Do you want to take your words back now, Longbottom? Aren’t you afraid that I might ravage you?’

Neville can only stare his friend surrounded by the dark green leaves, looking just like a vengeful dryad with his sharp sneer and enraged eyes. Why is Blaise saying these things? Is this what he thinks _Neville_ thinks? What has Neville done to make Blaise think so? Neville is filled with horror, thinking that he has hurt his friend, however inadvertently. But what can he do now? How can he make it all go away? Because he wants so badly to keep Blaise Zabini for his friend. He cannot lose him.

‘I’m sorry,’ Neville says quietly, the first thing to pop in his head. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve made you think I feel this way. I … I don’t. I don’t think you are … wrong in any way. I don’t care that you’re gay – truly, it doesn’t matter to me,’ he adds when Blaise scoffs mockingly, ‘you are still my friend. Your being gay doesn’t change our friendship.’

‘Don’t pretend to be decent,’ Blaise says with derision. ‘I saw the look on your face when you ran off. You look – you look –’ he shakes his head. ‘Don’t pretend to be Potter, Neville. You aren’t _noble_. You can only ever be a second-rate hero.’

Neville recoils. ‘I don’t –’

But Blaise doesn’t give him a chance to respond. ‘Do you know why I became your friend, _Neville_? Because you’re useful to me in Herbology. Do you think I would have given you my time of day otherwise? You’re not one of the Golden Trio – you’re not influential in any way. I wouldn’t have chosen to be friends with you if you aren’t such a nerd in Herbology. Bloody hell, do you think I have fun spending time with you? You’re always running your ruddy mouth off about this plant and that plant – you’re so bloody boring! Piss off – I don’t need you pretending to be my friend.’

Blaise Zabini is his arresting when he’s being cruel: the ice-cold glint in his dark eyes, his lips glistening wetly as the poison pours out in the form of words, his entire face transformed by shadows and lines. Oh, he certainly means for every word to hurt. Watching him, Neville thinks of Nagini – the way the black snack undulated, sinuous death incarnate, and how in the end, he slew the snake with a sword.

But he has no sword here. Only pain and weariness. Well, the year of war has shown him that he has the stamina to bear pain and weariness in equal measure. He gets up, feeling heavy and cold; his bones are blocks of ice, and his heart feels full of splinters.

‘Not going to defend yourself?’ Blaise asks challengingly.

Neville gazes down at him and slowly shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry I bored you so much. I always had fun when we spend time together.’

He leaves the courtyard without looking back, and that is the end of Neville and Blaise’s brief friendship in eighth year. It’s easy enough for Neville to fall back into his old routine – after all, he clearly doesn’t know Blaise Zabini for that long of a time or on a deep enough level. They are merely classmates, and that’s a relationship easy enough to sustain. Also, Ginny breaks up with Dean a few weeks later, and she drifts back to Neville’s side, sheepishly apologising for neglecting their friendship, so he has his good friend back again.

The rest of the year passes in a flurry of cramming and anxious studying. Hermione drives them all nearly mad with her nagging, Pansy and Ron bearing the worst of it. As Harry shouted at her once, it’s ridiculous because they all know she will receive straight Os – a comment enough to drive her into paroxysms of denial and despair.

The exams come and go: Neville gets the NEWTs he needs and applies for a two-year Master programme in Germany that comes highly recommended by Professor Sprout. On a bright summer’s day, he packs his trunk and flies to the transoceanic Floo point. He is ready for the next stage of his life.

 

* * *

 

**_ii. gardenia_ **

 

Neville is a year into his Master programme when he receives a letter from Pansy, asking if they could have dinner next week when she’s in the area visiting relatives. He responds enthusiastically; the last time he met anyone from home was Ginny and Luna six months ago. He enjoys the life he has built in Heidelberg, but he misses home far more than he expected to.

They meet at Neville’s favourite restaurant run by a Squib who married a Muggle. Their children are magical, and they are close to the town’s wizarding community, so there’s a Floo installed right in the restaurant. Pansy comes stumbling out of the fireplace looking very different from the girl Neville remembers from school.

‘You look fantastic!’ he exclaims when she joins him at the booth he reserved.

She laughs, tossing her purse onto the seat and sliding in gracefully. ‘You have learned how to pay a lady a compliment, Longbottom!’

‘Only if it’s the truth,’ he grins. And it _is_ true.

Pansy has cut her hair short, wearing it in a stylish pixie cut. Without all that heavy dark hair hanging in her face, her big eyes are more clearly seen, drawing the attention away from her upturned nose. She is also wearing make-up: thick eyeliner, flattering blush and red lips. Now Neville understands the rather considering tone Ginny used when they talked about their former schoolmates. He wonders if Pansy dates girls.

‘You look well too,’ she says at this point, looking him up and down suggestively. ‘Very scholarly.’

‘Thank you, I dressed up for you,’ he says, tugging with exaggerated pride on the lapels of his jacket.

She laughs again, light, tinkling laughter that draws the attention of the next table. Over her shoulder, Lukas, the owner, gives Neville thumbs up and a grin. He snorts, shaking his head.

Pansy is looking at the menu. ‘Hmmm … what should we order?’

The night passes very enjoyably. Neville wasn’t close to Pansy in school, but they always got along well enough. Despite her appearance and wicked sense of humour, she was all right after the war and the eighth years called a truce. Hermione said that Pansy simply grew up. It is true that some people are like dragons, who could moult the old scales and come back anew.

Pansy is helping to run her family estate now. The Parkinsons have escaped the war with their fortunes largely intact due to astute husbanding and careful alliances. She says that her father doesn’t quite trust her to take all the reins yet, but he agreed to her plan to grow potion supplies in their estate’s greenhouses.

‘The long-term plan is to supply the whole of Europe,’ she says, munching on her sourdough bread. ‘But we’re starting with the UK’s hospitals and clinics first. We’ll move into France next.’

‘There are a lot of suppliers in the market though,’ Neville says. ‘Why would they choose yours?’

‘Because we’ll have the best supplies,’ she says with the casual confidence of the very rich. ‘I’ve hired a team of Herbologists to conduct research. They are a few of the very best in the world – you might have heard of Wu Zhi Yong? Aditya? Elizabeth Howard?’

Neville gapes at her. ‘ _Heard_ of them? Bloody hell, Pansy, they are _legendary_. How did you manage to get them to work for you?’

She chuckles. ‘By telling them they aren’t working for _me_. They’re working for the greater of humankind – Blaise thought of that, of course.’ She catches herself, glancing at him quickly.

Neville manages to keep the emotion from his face. It’s natural for her to talk about Blaise Zabini – after all, they are still close friends. He looks down at his plate, fiddling with his fork.

‘How’s Blaise doing?’ he asks, hoping he sounds casual. ‘We haven’t spoken since Hogwarts … It’s been a while. I hope he’s doing well. Ginny did mention to me that the two of you are still close.’

‘Yeah … we are,’ Pansy sounds cautious now. ‘He’s doing well enough, I suppose. He’s rich, so he doesn’t need a _career_ ,’ – she makes a job sound like a death sentence, completely disregarding the fact that _she_ is working – ‘he has been travelling a lot with his mother, especially in the last few months. It seems like she’s on a hunt for a new husband and he’s supposed to help her somehow. I forced him to help me enlist those Herbologists.’

‘Oh …’ Neville says, desperately searching for words. ‘Putting his E in Herbology to good use, I see. And … is he still seeing Theodore Nott?’

‘Theo?’ Pansy is puzzled, cocking her head. ‘Not on a regular basis. When Draco owls for a gathering, I suppose? Theo is working for his parents too – they run shops in Diagon Alley.’

‘Oh, that’s nice,’ Neville replies automatically, wondering what _not on a regular basis_ means.

‘Wait, you don’t think that they’re dating or something, do you?’ she asks, her eyes sharpening.

‘Weren’t they dating in school?’

Pansy raises her eyebrows, a look of wicked amusement on her face making him rather nervous. ‘How in Salazar’s name did you get _that_ idea? They weren’t dating, love. Theo is straight – Blaise merely sucks his dick once in a while. Back when we were in school, of course. Theo is seeing a rather pretty bird now.’

Neville blinks, quite unable to muster an appropriate response to that. How _does_ he respond to that? Nott is straight? He was only using Blaise for sex. Pansy chuckles, picking up her wine glass.

‘In fact, I would say _I_ meet up with Blaise the most out of our group,’ she says. ‘And we haven’t seen each other in months.’

‘Oh … that’s a pity …’

She is swirling her elf-made wine, staring thoughtfully at the bubbling clear liquid. ‘Blaise keeps to himself, you know. He doesn’t talk about himself much, and he’s very good with putting masks on in front of people – that’s the Zabini way. His mother is very much the same. But … you don’t live with someone for eight years without learning something of him or her. It’s like the way you would recognise if it’s Harry or Seamus rummaging around in the dorm, do you know what I mean?’

Neville nods, spearing a baby potato on his fork. He has no bloody clue where Pansy is going with this, but his stomach is in knots. He puts his fork down. She looks up at him, her gaze sharp as needles. She takes a languid sip from her glass.

‘So I would say I know a _little_ of Blaise – whatever he lets through the cracks. When the two of you were … closer in our repeat year, did you ever ask him about seventh year? The _real_ seventh year?’

Neville licks his dry, chapped lips. ‘No,’ he says, his voice hoarse. ‘We never talked about that year.’

Pansy nods once, as if she expects that answer. ‘Blaise wouldn’t talk about it, not with anyone. He doesn’t … he doesn’t process pain very well, you know. He’s only ever been taught that he mustn’t show that he’s in pain, because that’s weakness. So he doesn’t handle it very well. He pushes it away by inflicting it on others, even if he doesn’t want to. You know the old adage, “Injured dragons kill”? That’s Blaise. Of course, I can only say all these things in hindsight, and because he’s never tried to hurt me before. It’s easy for _me_ to understand him … but it must be harder for you …’

Neville shakes his head, slowly at first, then vehemently. No, why should it have been harder for _him_? Who is he to Blaise Zabini? Not a friend, not someone like Pansy who sticks around and be depended upon. He is only a schoolmate, the bloke he had taken NEWT-level Herbology with. Nothing more. _Nothing more._

‘You’re a good friend, Pansy,’ he says.

She studies him over the rim of the glass. ‘I am, aren’t I?’ she finally says with some amusement. ‘To the both of you, I hope.’

Neville doesn’t get a chance to reply, because Hilde appears in the fireplace, spots him and cries out an enthusiastic greeting. She comes over, throwing her arms around and declaring herself bereft because she hasn’t seen him in a week. Grinning awkwardly at Pansy’s raised eyebrows, he introduces Hilde as one of his best friends in Germany.

‘ _Only_ friends?’ Hilde gasps with mock affront, swatting his arm. ‘We used to date!’

Pansy snorts with laughter. ‘Merlin’s balls, well, well, I am _surprised_ , Longbottom! I thought you and Ginny … well, never mind. Do tell – how did the two of you get together?’

The rest of the night passes embarrassingly for Neville – delightfully for Pansy, he’s sure, and amusingly for Hilde, who was just dropping for take-out at first, but is easily persuaded by Pansy to stay. Hilde regales Pansy with the details of their brief relationship, ignoring Neville’s groans and pleas. They were together three months before they both realised that just because they are well suited to be friends, that doesn’t mean they will work well as a couple. It was an amicable break-up, and they picked up their friendship easily enough after the end.

In hindsight, Neville realises that they weren’t behaving in a particularly couple-like manner anyway. They had dinner twice a week, during which they discussed their respective research – Hilde is an ardent Herbologist like him – and their one night together was lacklustre for both sides. If Hilde hadn’t broached the idea of breaking up first, Neville would have. In the end, the feeling that lingered within him was relief.

He says good-bye to Pansy with genuine affection, the two of them agreeing that they must meet up again when he’s back in the UK. When he’s home, he sits down at his desk, takes out a blank sheet of parchment, and begins a letter, _Dear Blaise_ , but that sounds weird, doesn’t it? Is it too formal? He Vanishes the ink and tries again, _Hi Blaise!_ No, no, too perky.

How does he write a letter to a friend he used to know? It would seem like a lie for him to say he wants to know how Blaise has been, because he didn’t bother to find out in more than a year, did he? There is no acceptable excuse for Neville to write Blaise, except … the guilt Pansy’s words stir in him. Does he really want to know how Blaise is? Or is he trying to assuage his own guilt about failing as a friend?

He pushes the parchment away, and Summons a glass and the unopened bottle of Firewhiskey someone gifted him. _Sod this_ , he thinks, and the letter to Blaise is never sent, abandoned in Neville’s more determined exploration of the joys of imbibing Firewhiskey.

So he’s bewildered when he’s sorting through his mail two weeks later to find a letter _from_ Blaise Zabini. He is once again at his desk, the window open to let the cool night breeze in. The cobra lily on the windowsill is rippling happily. The sky is only just turning to dusk. He is full and satisfied from the dinner he had with Hilde and their other friends.

He looks back down at the letter, running his thumb along the name at the bottom – _Blaise_. He can feel the strokes of the quill on the parchment. The handwriting is immaculate – not a blot of ink anywhere. He takes a deep shuddery breath, and begins to read.

_Hello Neville, it has been a while. I do hope you have been well. I heard from Pansy that you are studying for your Master in Herbology in Germany. It’s brilliant that you’re doing what you wanted when we were in school. I will be in the Black Forest region for a few days next week – Mother’s touring the spa towns. A scholar like you must be very busy, but if you have a free night, would you like to have dinner? I will certainly have the time. Let me know. It will be nice to catch up with you._

And he signs off: _Your friend, Blaise._

 _Your friend._ Neville swallows past the lump in his throat, the letter pulled taut between his tensed fingers. His heartbeat is roaring in his ears, his skin alternatively flushing hot and running cold. His thoughts are tangled in his head: Pansy must have said something. She must have – otherwise, why is Blaise writing him out of the blue? No, wait, even if she did say something like _oh, I met with Neville when I was in Germany_ , why will that inspire Blaise to do the same?

He drops the letter, kneading his forehead with his knuckles. ‘Merlin’s pants.’

He grimaces. If they were ever friends, it ended two years ago. Pansy’s voice in his head: _He pushes it away by inflicting it on others, even if he doesn’t want to._ And a low, hissing voice spitting with fury: _I don’t need you pretending to be my friend._

Neville looks down at the letter again, brushing his thumb against the words, _Your friend, Blaise_ , and he sighs. He pulls out a fresh sheet of parchment and a quill, and fires off a response, inviting Blaise (and his mother, if she so wishes to join them) to his favourite restaurant on Thursday night. Unlike his first letter, he has no problem finding the words. There is only _yes, I am free to have dinner with you_. He admits to himself, with a bitter taste in his mouth, that he knows he will meet Blaise from the moment he saw who the letter is from.

The next day, Blaise sends an owl to accept Neville’s invitation.

Neville tries not to think about it. He throws himself into his research, working well in the wee hours of the night – unusual enough for his local friends to comment with some concern. He manages to explain it away with the need to meet planting cycles. He’s busy, busy, busy, but on some nights, when he lies in bed and his brain is winding down, the thoughts bob to the surface, filthy detritus floating on murky, greasy waters.

But he doesn’t have a Time Turner, and time marches on, bringing him to Thursday more quickly than he expected. He arrives early at the restaurant, deciding to Disapparate to a spot nearby. He stands for a moment at the door, staring at the warm yellow light spilling out of the busy restaurant into the cold dusk. _Your friend, Blaise._ As always, Blaise knows precisely what to say to get to Neville.

Lukas greets Neville enthusiastically when he enters. ‘Your friend is already here. I took him to your usual booth.’

‘Oh,’ Neville feels a bit sick, glancing over at the booth, where a dark figure sits half-turned to the entrance. ‘Thanks, Lukas. I’ll let you know when we’re ready to order.’

‘Take your time, my friend!’ he says cheerfully before hurrying off to answer a customer’s wave.

Blaise sees Neville approach, and he rises. The prat is still as good-looking as ever, perhaps even more so because he is no longer in drab school robes. He looks resplendent in gorgeously embroidered navy robes swirling with intricate designs. He draws gazes, tall and broad as he is. His smile blazes out like a ruddy _Lumos_ , charming and inviting.

Neville feels his lips lift awkwardly. He is cringing on the inside, certain that he must seem like a maniac. He wishes he had worn his best set of robes after all. Bloody hell, the robes he’s wearing bear mud stains he has forgotten to Vanish. It will be far too obvious now to do something about it.

‘Neville, it’s good to see you again,’ Blaise says, proffering a hand.

‘Likewise,’ Neville says, taking his hand.

It surprises him, the shock that goes up his arm, the heat flaming across his skin, at Blaise’s touch. He glances up at the other man, but Blaise’s face is inscrutable. Neville pulls his hand away, and they take their seats at the booth.

He stares down at the tattered menu, even though he already knows it by heart. A few weeks ago, he sat here with Pansy, but the way he feels cannot have been more different. Then, he looked forward to catching up with an old friend, to hear the news from back home; now, he is sitting on a nest of Doxies, tensed and apprehensive.

‘You must come here often,’ Blaise says. ‘The owner seems to know you very well.’

‘Yeah, I’m here nearly every day. It’s my favourite restaurant.’

‘Oh, is that so?’ Blaise gazes around. ‘It certainly is doing well with the magical community.’

‘The owner is a Squib, and his wife is a Muggle, but their children turned out magical,’ Neville explains. ‘Their food is very good. I mean, it might not compare to stuff _you_ ’ve eaten, but it reminds me of home – it’s simple and hearty. The beer is cheap here too.’

‘Sounds good,’ Blaise says with a smile. ‘I’m ready to order – I looked through the menu while waiting for you. Lukas was giving me recommendations, including what you like to eat.’

‘Oh, okay,’ Neville waves a hand for Lukas’ attention, wondering how early Blaise had been and what Lukas might have said to him.

While they wait for their food, Neville asks how Blaise has been occupying his time. Blaise tells him about his travels with his mother. He has dined with members of the Wizengamot, and he made the acquaintances of Muggle viscounts and earls. He apprenticed for six months with a Japanese wandmaker. All these, he reveals in response to Neville’s questions, framing his exploits with wry amusement and off-handed nonchalance.

‘I’ve been talking about myself far too much,’ Blaise says with a laugh. ‘What about you, Longbottom? What have you been up to here?’

Neville lets Lukas’ wife, Emma, serve the food before speaking. He thinks furiously, wondering how he can talk about his Herbology studies in a way that doesn’t sound utterly tiresome. But there isn’t, because if Blaise weren’t interested, he wouldn’t find it good conversation no matter how Neville spins it.

So he talks about why he chose this college in the first place. He tells Blaise about his area of research and long nights trudging through the Black Forest with his professors in search of late bloomers. He mentions the friendships he’s managed to find in this little town, an international community of plant-lovers drawn to Heidelberg for its quality of research.

And as he talks, he feels the force of Blaise’s attention: the way the other man’s eyes meets his unflinchingly, the sincere interest he shows in Neville’s life, the genuine amusement at Neville’s anecdotes. Blaise appears to enjoy talking to him. Neville feels more than a little silly for worrying at the start. It has been a while since Hogwarts – they have become slightly different people from who they were then. Blaise cannot still be the cruel boy he had been then.

They are drinking beer as the evening darkens into night, and Neville feels the tension bleeding from him. The conversation flows easily, and he remembers what he liked so much about Blaise Zabini in the first place.

‘And he made me kneel in the courtyard for the whole night – he used a kappa to watch on me – easily the worst night of my life!’ Blaise says with dramatic flourish, shuddering.

‘Blimey, a kappa! Hideous creatures, aren’t they? What would it have done to you if you had fallen asleep or something?’

‘Stick its little arm up my arsehole and pull my soul out,’ Blaise replies sombrely.

Neville gapes at him, speechless, before catching the glimmer of amusement on his face, and he throws his head back, laughing uproariously. Blaise joins in his laughter as well, sputtering helplessly, ‘I’m not kidding! The Japanese call it the _shirikodama_ – a ball that contains the soul – and it’s said to be in your anus.’

‘Shut your gob!’ Neville snorts, slapping Blaise on the shoulder.

Blaise grins at him, the sort of reckless, glowing grin that accompanies a steady flow of alcohol. Neville feels something powerful tug within him, and it must show on his face, because Blaise’s face changes abruptly, his face shuttering, his eyes dimming. The air between them turns cold. Blaise looks down, taking a gulp from his pint.

Neville is bewildered. It’s as if he has been walking along fine, and the magic carpet is ripped out from beneath, sending him tumbling through empty air. _What in Godric’s name …_ For a long moment, they sit in tensed silence. Blaise drums his fingers along the table top, gazing into his pint as if it were a scrying mirror.

‘I do have an ulterior motive for coming to see you, Neville,’ he says suddenly. ‘Pansy has told you about her business, and how I’m helping her with it? Yes, well, what I’ve been doing is putting her in contact with talented Herbologists who can lend their expertise to the plants she wants to grow on her land.’

‘I heard …’ Neville says cautiously.

‘I was wondering … Mother is thinking of buying a house in the next town, and if she does, I will be visiting this region rather frequently. Do you think I could drop by and have a chat with you about some of the recommendations from these Herbologists? I don’t know enough about plants to judge how suitable their recommendations might be. I thought … it might be better for Pansy’s business this way.’

‘Oh …’ Neville is bemused. ‘But I heard from Pansy that these are famous Herbologists. They are unlikely to make bad recommendations, and besides, I’m not nearly knowledgeable enough to help you like that. It might be better if you consult my professors instead?’

‘Oh …’ Blaise looks down. ‘You’re right. Sorry, I’m not – I’m not thinking properly. You’re right, it doesn’t make sense.’ He shrugs, face expressionless, and takes another gulp of beer.

Neville watches him, thinking. He’s thinking about the letter that came from Blaise unexpectedly. He’s thinking about the dinner with Pansy when she asked him abruptly, _do you hate Blaise, because of those shitty things he said to you in school?_ And Neville, caught off-guard, blurted, _of course not. He was a friend._ He sees the way Blaise is finishing off his beer, his throat gulping nervously, his fingers wrapped tight around the mug. _Through the cracks._

Carefully, Neville pulls his words into place. You never know with these Slytherins. ‘But if … you’re going to be visiting your mother often, we could have dinner whenever you’re here? It is always nice to see someone from home. You can meet some of my friends here too. It’ll be nice.’

Blaise regards him with impenetrable dark eyes, long enough for Neville to feel doubt bloom in his stomach, but finally, he smiles – a tentative smile that hits Neville right through the chest.

‘I’d like that,’ he says. ‘Yes, that would be nice. It can be terribly tiresome with only Mother and her suitors for company. I’ll owl you, yeah?’

Neville grins, his chest warm and tingly as if a Weasleys’ Wildfire Whiz-bangs has been set off within him. ‘Yeah, please do.’

 

* * *

 

**_iii. sweet pea_ **

 

Dean and Seamus announce their engagement three months after Neville is back in England, and instead of separate stag nights, they decide to throw a massive party together in a gay club. Unicorn Farts is popular with both Muggles and the wizarding community. Dean and Seamus, who are regulars, wanted a place where both their Muggle and magical friends could mix.

Neville, who goes with Ginny, feels completely out of place. He’s only been to a club once before in Heidelberg, when Hilde dragged him there, but _that_ place is considered mild compared to Unicorn Farts. The cavernous space has three floors, all centred upon the throbbing dance floor. Lights flash red, blue, green and yellow, and booths are made out of a shiny, mirrored shell. In one corner, glitter bombs occasionally burst in mid-air.

Everywhere, people are dancing without inhibition. They are dressed to snatch attention: see-through tops, jeans so tight they must be painted on, bright lipstick and sparkly eyelids. Neville feels like a berk in his graphic T-shirt and black jeans. He wipes his sweaty palms discretely, glancing at Ginny.

His best friend is scanning the first floor for their friends, seemingly unaware of the gazes she’s drawing from both men and women. She’s dressed fully determined to pull tonight. _I feel like snogging someone tonight,_ she declared to him earlier, when she was putting on her make-up in his flat’s cramped toilet. _Male or female?_ He asked, amused. _Anyone hot_ , she retorted, tossing her fiery hair over a bare shoulder.

‘There they are!’ she exclaims, and grabs his hand.

They barge their way through the crowd, making for the most prominent booth in the club, right on the very edge of the heaving dance floor. Dean and Seamus are wearing crowns and holding court, beaming with happiness as their friends surround them laughing and drinking. Harry and Draco, Ron and Hermione, Luna, and Pansy are already there. After giving the happy couple their congratulations, they join the rest of their friends.

‘This place is bloody mad!’ Ron shouts, handing Neville and Ginny drinks. ‘Here, drink up! It’ll be easier when you’re drunk.’

‘Cheers!’ Ginny says gaily and downs the glass of bright red liquid rapidly.

Neville considers the cocktail glass sweating in his hand doubtfully. ‘What is it?’

‘Just drink it, Longbottom!’ Pansy laughs, slapping him on the back. She loses her balance and stumbles into Neville, causing him to spill most of the drink. ‘Oops!’

He catches her around the waist before she could fall over. Draco shoots him an apologetic look, reaching over to yank his friend back to his side. ‘She’s had a few,’ he explains with a chuckle.

‘Here you go, mate!’ Ron says, shoving another drink at Neville. ‘Dean and Seamus are on a mission to get all of us sloshed.’

‘They’re succeeding,’ Harry adds wryly, nodding over at Hermione, who is having an impassioned discussion with Luna about socks.

Neville shrugs and throws the cocktail back. It’s tooth-achingly sweet and much stronger than he expects, but after two more of it, he feels much more relaxed. Everybody is just on the pleasant side of tipsy, when everything seems fun and funny. Draco has dragged a protesting Harry off to the dance floor, and Hermione is egging Ron and Ginny on in a drinking contest, with Pansy as Ginny’s ardent supporter. Luna is also somewhere on the dance floor with a Muggle bloke, who’s Dean’s childhood friend.

Neville leans back in his seat, holding another drink, watching the crowd with a gentle buzz warm in his veins. There is nothing like a good strong drink to make a long week better. None of his experiments are going right, and he will have to redo quite a bit of work next week, but oh well, that is for next week to worry about. He finishes the rest of his drink.

Blaise will be back next week, so that at least will make it all better. He reaches over to the table for another drink, and in that moment, catches the eye of a tall, dark man on the other side of the booth. Perhaps it’s because he’s thinking about Blaise, but the man looks remarkably like his friend. He is certainly as good-looking, although he’s more muscular and wears his hair in an Afro. When he turns to his friends, Neville spots a jagged scar stretching from his jaw and in to the neckline of his button-down. Intriguing.

The other man looks back at him, and flashes him a wicked grin that sends lightning shooting straight to Neville’s groin. He freezes, shocked at his physical response and mortified at having been caught. His cheeks aflame, he focuses on his drink. At least his friends didn’t notice. He can still feel eyes on him, and when he peeks up from under his lashes, he sees that the dark man is staring at him, full lips quirked into an amused smile. His friends are nudging him, none-too-subtly pushing him towards Neville.

Neville hastily looks back down, perturbed. They cannot possibly think that Neville is looking that man over. Could they? He wasn’t! He was merely noting the other man’s resemblance to Blaise – he misses his friend, who has been in Italy for two weeks on business for Pansy. He’s supposed to be back tonight, but in his last letter, he said that he might be delayed – something that adds another downer to Neville’s week.

Neville isn’t trying to pull, not another man. He looks up. The bloke is still watching him, and when their eyes met, he smirks, sending another fission of desire spiralling through Neville. Neville gulps down his drink, his heartbeat roaring in his ears. His mind is in a swirl. This must be what it feels like to be Obliviated, because he can only think about the sexual need throbbing in his pants and that bloke’s terribly handsome face.

Not looking over, Neville staggers to his feet. His friends glance at him, and he mutters, ‘The loo,’ before walking into the crowd.

The loo would be somewhere near the bar, wouldn’t it? He doesn’t know any better – _is_ there a standard layout for clubs? He doesn’t know, not _he_ , Neville Longbottom, who’s developing a paunch from too many beers in quiet pubs. Not the Neville Longbottom, who’s only ever dated one girl in his entire life and has never felt such strong desire for a stranger based on his looks. He didn’t think this was possible for himself.

He feels lost. He _is_ lost; he’s in a long, dimly lit hallway. There was a locked door, but nothing a quick _Alohomora_ couldn’t fix. He’s taken a few turns, and _still_ no toilet. He doesn’t need to piss, but he needs – oh, he needs to _think_. What is that? That strange thing that happened in the club. He doesn’t know, doesn’t know – oh, he needs to _think_.

 _Blaise_ , he thinks with a blaze of clarity. Blaise would be able to explain it to him, tell him what’s wrong with him and why he’s thinking this way. He spins around, determined to leave the club and to find Blaise, because he’s supposed to be back _soon_ , and Merlin’s sodding pants, he needs his friend terribly.

The handsome stranger is right behind him. ‘Blimey,’ he says, peering down the hallway. ‘You’ve managed to find a quiet spot, haven’t you?’ His voice is deep and rumbly, sending a shiver down Neville’s spine.

‘I –’ Neville cuts himself off, because well, he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say, except _excuse me_ perhaps. He stares, wide-eyed, at the other man, who looks even better up close.

The man leers, looking him up and down his body. ‘No need to look so bloody surprised, Bambi.’ _Bambi?_ ‘I’m only returning the compliment. Bloody hell, the way you were looking at me … you’re not usually my type – your blonde friend is – but you look as if you’re gagging for my cock, and I’m feeling particularly generous today.’

The man is moving closer to him with every word, and before Neville can reply, he has his hands on Neville’s shoulders. He pulls Neville in and kisses him. Neville has only kissed Hilde before. Kissing her was pleasant: her lips were soft and she smelled nice, but it took a while of her hands stroking him before he could muster a proper hard-on.

Kissing this man – his stubble scrapes against Neville’s chin, and he smells of alcohol. His hands are big and firm on Neville’s shoulders, his body hard and flat where he presses against Neville. He kisses with aggression, his tongue probing between Neville’s lips. But there is great heat growing between them, setting Neville’s groin on fire, his skin in flames. This need, this desire flooding him is nothing like he has ever experienced. He wants more. He wants closer. He wants it hard and fast and quick and hot.

He grabs at the other man’s back, pulling him in close, grinding his stiffening dick against him. The other man drops a hand, grabbing one of Neville’s arse cheeks and squeezing _hard_. With his other hand, he pulls on a lock of Neville’s hair, exposing his neck. He drops his mouth to Neville’s neck, sucking hard, and Neville moans, his eyes fluttering shut.

The hallway and the thumping music from the distance disappear. There is only this man touching him like he’s not been touched before and his hot mouth against Neville’s bare skin. Neville tightens his grip on the other man’s waist, rubbing himself desperately against what he knows is another hardening cock. _Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck._ The man kisses up Neville’s neck, and their mouths meet again. He moves his hand from Neville’s arse and shoves it between their bodies, pressing his palm tight against Neville’s bulge. Neville groans with pleasure.

‘Wow, you _are_ desperate for it, aren’t you?’ the man says with a chuckle.

He pushes Neville against the wall, and they are kissing. Neville is hungry for his lips, yanking him back whenever they part. The man is running his hands up and down the side of Neville’s body, sending shivers wherever he touches. He slips his hand beneath Neville’s T-shirt, raking his nails along his back, the pain sending thrills of delight shooting through Neville.

His hands are on Neville’s fly, undoing the top button and pulling the zip down. With a single, smooth movement, he pulls Neville’s jeans and pants down his knees as he crouches down on the floor. Neville’s dick springs free, undeniably and humiliatingly hard. Neville is so hard, he feels he might shatter if he finds no release. He grunts, reaching down for the other man, but the stranger swats his hands away.

‘Naughty boy,’ the dark man says teasingly, and he looks up from under his long, dark lashes. ‘Today’s your lucky day, love.’

And he closes his mouth around Neville’s cock – his warm, wet, talented mouth. Hilde has given him blowjobs before, but she is nothing compared to this man. The way he does it with so much enthusiasm, the way his cheeks hollow out as he bobs his head up and down on _Neville’s_ cock. Neville looks down, looks at the way this astonishingly good-looking man is kneeling on cold, hard ground, his hands gripping Neville by his arse, his terrific mouth wrapped around Neville’s throbbing cock.

The man looks up, and their eyes meet, and abruptly, his face is Blaise’s, beautiful and pliant with lust. The man’s tongue curls under Neville’s dick, but before anything else, a hand shoots out of the shadows and yanks the other man back, throwing him onto the ground. And even through his drunken haze, Neville sees that it really _is_ Blaise standing in front of him, dressed in a travelling cloak, rumpled and frazzled as if he’s been flying for hours, and looking aghast and horrified.

The tension that has been building low and heavy in Neville’s groin crests, and the carnal need floods over him. He wraps his hand around his dick and strokes himself, staring right into Blaise’s eyes. His desperate panting is loud and grotesque in the dead silence. Blaise does not look away from his face. It only takes a few tugs, and the desire snaps and his hips are jerking, his cum spurting through the air and landing on Blaise’s cloak.

Neville lets go, and he’s sliding down against the wall, his legs too weak now. He closes his eyes, giving in to the swirl of dizziness in his head. Somewhere in that roiling sea, the image of Blaise’s face cold and forbidding swims. His final thought is, _oh, so that’s why._

When Neville drifts back to consciousness, he finds himself in an enormous bed that cradles him like a soft dream. He’s tucked into it when the warm covers pulled to his chin. His hands move over the smooth, silky covers, which appear to be glittering in the dimly lit room. He pushes himself up, and the mattress immediately rearranges itself to support him in a sitting position. He pauses, looking around at the humungous room: a gold clock on the wall, showering stars with every tick; an ornate side table that comes clattering up with a glass of water; and a freshly-laundered, fluffy, white bathrobe floating in mid-air next to the bed, exuding an air of utmost patience.

He’s clearly in a room that belongs to a wizard – a wealthy wizard who can afford charmed furniture from some of the most exclusive craftsmen in the wizarding world. He bites his bottom lip, feeling a headache pounding at his temples. His mouth tastes like vomit too. _Merlin’s beard, I’m never drinking again._ He sighs, the noise small in the grand room.

Well, he has to get up, so he does. He pulls on the bathrobe, which is warm and soft and perfect, over his nakedness, and stuffs into the pocket his wand that is left next to the glass of water. He gulps down the water, leaving some to swill in his mouth and spit out. With another sigh, he opens the only door in the room, and finds a house elf waiting in the large hallway outside. The house elf is dressed immaculately in a gold-trimmed handkerchief folded like a toga, fastened at the shoulder with a green-gemmed brooch.

‘Good afternoon, Master Longbottom,’ the house elf chirps, dipping in a curtsey. ‘My name is Emma. I do hope you had a good sleep. Young Master told us to let you rest. Would you like some lunch now? I will take you to the dining room, if you wish.’

‘Oh … uh, yes, please,’ Neville says. ‘Oh, no, wait. Do you – do you have a toothbrush I could borrow? Sorry, my mouth feels absolutely foul.’

‘Of course!’ Emma says. ‘Let me bring you to the guest bathroom, Master Longbottom.’

And of course, when Neville is done in the bathroom, he finds Emma outside, waiting patiently. He apologises for making her wait, and the little house elf looks almost comically surprised.

‘There is no need for apologies, Master Longbottom! It is my pleasure to be of use to you,’ she squeaks. ‘Besides, Young Master expressly informed us that we must take very good care of you until he returns. Come, Master Longbottom, this way to the kitchen. I hope you don’t mind – Young Master prefers dining in the kitchen, and he tells us to keep the solar and dining room closed up.’

‘Oh … I don’t mind at all,’ Neville says weakly.

The hallways they walk through are lushly carpeted, and the eggshell-white walls tastefully decorated with abstract paintings. They go down a wide, curving staircase to a grand entrance hall, where Neville finally sees signs that this isn’t just one of those townhouses turned into a tourist attraction. There is a rack absolutely buried in cloaks – Neville cringes away from the memory of last night; _not yet –_ and there are boots neatly placed below an enormous gilded mirror hanging against one wall.

To the left of the staircase, the house opens up into a bright space, with the afternoon sunlight streaming through ceiling-to-floor windows. Comfortable-looking sofas and armchairs are arranged tastefully around a wooden coffee table that looks antique. But the most beautiful thing about this room is the plants.

Both magical and non-magical plants occupy every other space in this room, and care and research have clearly been put into their placement. Neville notes how the cobra lily is placed on the opposite end of the room from the rabbit moss, which is growing beautifully with the succulents in an elaborate terrarium. There are also bonsai trees carefully placed on decorative stands and verdant leafy ferns hanging from the ceiling. The room smells of green sunlight.

‘This is the Young Master’s favourite room,’ Emma says when she sees Neville’s amazement. ‘He takes care of all these plants himself, and he doesn’t allow us to touch them. He says it wouldn’t mean a thing unless he does it himself. He says he wants you to be proud of him.’

‘What?’ Neville whips his head to gawp at her. ‘Me? Proud of him?’

‘Oh, yes, Master Longbottom. Young Master talks about you frequently when he’s in the plant room. He talks to the plants about you. He says you taught him how to love them.’

Neville is speechless. Since they reignited their friendship over a year ago when Blaise visited him frequently in Germany, they meet often here too. He always enjoys spending time with Blaise, whether alone or with their group of friends, and he likes to think that they have truly become rather good friends. Inadvertently, their conversations circle around plants, because of the nature of Neville’s work and Blaise’s assistance in Pansy’s potion supplies business. But not once did Blaise mention this room.

Not once has Neville been in Blaise’s house either. When they are not meeting at the Thirsty Thestral pub, they are usually over at Neville’s cottage in Hogsmeade. Blaise has never invited Neville over, and Neville didn’t think it was necessary to probe. As Emma leads Neville into the kitchen bustling with four more house elves in togas fastened with jewelled brooches, he begins to think maybe he should have.

The other house elves are Harold, Ian, Jamie and Sonia. Together with Emma, they run the London household for the Young Master, who lives here permanently, and the Mistress, who visits once in a while. She lives in the main household in Cambridge, where most of the elves lived once. The Mistress gave them their names, when she first bought them from their previous owners. Neville sees from the way their ears droop that they do not like talking about their previous owners. They do love talking about the Zabinis though.

The five elves chatter happily as they serve Neville a light lunch of a ham sandwich and salad tossed with vinaigrette, considerate of his queasy stomach. They also offer him Invigoration Draught, which he takes gratefully. He asks them questions about Blaise, curious about what his friend needs five house elves for when he’s often abroad.

‘Oh, there is _plenty_ to do,’ Ian says gleefully. ‘Young Master has clothes that must be carefully cleaned, and when he’s away, he trusts us to keep his plants alive. And the charmed furniture must be maintained _every day_. Oh, yes, there is plenty to do.’

‘But he is only one person. You hardly need five elves for one person,’ Neville points out, belatedly realising that he might sound rather insensitive to their kind.

‘Young Master sends us out to help others too,’ Jamie pipes up from where she’s vigorously pounding dough with Sonia. ‘He goes out to visit the needy in the wizarding community, he does. And he will come back and tell us what he wants us to do for them.’

‘Oh,’ Neville says, deeply surprised. _But no_ , he thinks, _I’ll be more surprised if he does tell me about them._

‘And there are those friends he brings over sometimes,’ Harold says, earning him a slap on the back of the head from Emma. ‘Ow! What’s that for, Emma?’ He’s pouting, clearly the baby of the group.

Emma shoots him a venomous look. ‘He means friends like Mistress Pansy and Master Draco,’ she assures Neville.

‘No, I don’t! I haven’t reached mating age, but I know what they’re doing in his room. The Young Master told me about it himself,’ Harold says petulantly.

Ian smacks him on the arm. ‘Harold, I think the chicken is burning. You know how the Young Master is partial to the chicken.’

‘Oh, dear!’ Harold hurries off.

‘They are just friends,’ Emma says to Neville. ‘They are not special … like _you_ , Master Longbottom.’

‘Thank you,’ Neville says, smothering his laugh.

He knows that Blaise has one-night stands, flings, friends with benefits, boyfriends, and girlfriends. His friend doesn’t talk about them to _him_ , but Pansy does – with disparaging scorn. He prefers not to hear it, always feeling a cold pit of dread open up in his stomach when Pansy brings it up. After last night, he finally understands why he loathes hearing about Blaise’s romantic affairs.

He doesn’t want to think about that – _not yet_ – and he doesn’t want to think about what the elves’ strange behaviour means. He cannot. Not until he has time to think about the truth he has stumbled upon about himself. He thinks about leaving before Blaise returns, but that is hardly acceptable behaviour. Not after Blaise brought his half-naked, sodden arse home and took care of him. Not after that humiliating scene he witnessed, which Neville must think of a way to explain. He has no excuse for leaving now, not even one about work because it is a Sunday.

The grand fireplace at the end of the kitchen flares with green Floo sparks, and Blaise comes storming out, looking as if he’s ready to hex the balls off the next bloke who touches him. Neville tenses immediately, dropping the last bite of his sandwich, his delicate appetite vanishing. Blaise freezes when he sees Neville awake and at the kitchen table. His frown disappears, and he walks over, looking relieved and exhausted. He is still dressed in last night’s clothes, sans the incriminating cloak (thank Merlin).

‘You’re awake,’ Blaise says, nodding at Ian when the elf holds up a kettle. ‘Yes, tea will be nice. Thank you, Ian.’

‘Yeah …’ Neville says awkwardly, looking down at his plate covered in crumbs. ‘Thanks for having me over.’

‘I … thought it might be better for you be here, where the elves can help to take care of you … instead of sending you home alone,’ his friend explains in a cautious tone. ‘Did you have a good rest?’

‘Yeah, the elves gave me an Invigorating Draught – that helps with the hangover,’ Neville says, trying to decipher a message in the breadcrumbs that will tell him how to face Blaise. ‘You went out rather early for a Sunday morning.’

‘I wasn’t home – I mean, I came home with you, but you were sleeping, and I had to go back. To the club, I mean. I’ve only just finished up over there.’

Neville has never heard Blaise sound so nervous. He peers up and blinks, astonished. Blaise looks thoroughly shaken – not a bit of his usual composure is to be seen. Neville feels the urge to soothe him, to chase away his uncertainties. He raises his head and meets Blaise’s eyes unflinchingly.

What happened, happened. He will have to deal with what learning a truth meant for himself _and_ for his friends. This is nothing even a Time Turner could fix, because the truth will always be there. He cannot avoid it.

‘Why did you have to go back?’ Neville asks.

Blaise winces. ‘I pulled my wand out in front of the Muggle. I managed to stop myself casting a spell in time because I saw from his face that he doesn’t know what the fuck a wand is, but … I knew the authorities would still come after me. So … I went back after I brought you home.’

‘He was a Muggle?’ Neville blurts, surprised. ‘But he was with us – as in, he was there for Dean and Seamus’ party.’

‘Yeah … he’s one of Dean’s Muggle cousins,’ Blaise sighs, running a hand along his shaved scalp. ‘Dean and Seamus aren’t ruddy pleased with me, as you can imagine. The Auror who responded called in an Obliviator – Dean was pissed as hell that his cousin’s mind was messed with, but the Auror insisted. Thank Salazar the Auror is a pal of Harry’s. At least, I wasn’t arrested or anything.’

Neville sees the slump in Blaise’s shoulders and the weariness on his face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says quietly, wishing there is a way for him to turn back time to take away the burden on his friend at the very least.

Blaise looks up quickly, frowning. ‘Don’t be stupid. This isn’t your fault. I overreacted. If I hadn’t … if I hadn’t stepped in, none of this would have happened. It … it wasn’t as if you didn’t want it.’

‘Yes,’ Neville says despite the blush on his cheeks. ‘I wanted it.’

Ian appears with a pot and two cups. At Blaise’s nod, he pours out the tea and places the milk and sugar cubes on the table before bowing and swishing away. Neville realises that the kitchen is quiet. The house elves have all disappeared, although he knows that they will reappear immediately at the slightest hint of an order from their Young Master.

Blaise puts a splash of milk and a sugar cube into Neville’s cup, and a sugar cube into his own. ‘You’ve met the house elves?’ he asks, stirring.

When Neville doesn’t reply, he looks up, sees the look on Neville’s face, and frowns in concern. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing … nothing is wrong,’ Neville says slowly, picking up his own teaspoon and stirring. _Except that you know how I like my tea._ You _noticed._ And the thoughts he didn’t want to entertain after what Emma said to him is taking shape within him once more, along with the question: _why did Blaise overreact?_ But this is a question he does not want answered, not when _he_ hasn’t sorted out his own feelings. It wouldn’t be fair to Blaise.

So Neville says instead: ‘Yeah, I’ve met all of them. They told me that your mother bought them from their old owners. Your mother … rescued them, didn’t she?’

Blaise shrugs. ‘In a way. We can’t get the house elves to completely break free of everything wizards have bred them to be, but we try. The names, for example. Until they’ve decided they want to name themselves, Mother thinks there’s no need to give them diminutive, demeaning names like Kreacher. That’s Harry’s unfortunate elf’s name, you know.’

‘Wow,’ Neville says, impressed. ‘I didn’t – I wouldn’t have thought that way.’

‘That’s because you’re from one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Your old wizarding families aren’t able to think this way because it’s just seen as something natural, yeah? But Mother … she’s Muggle-born, you see. There are a lot of things she found wrong with the wizarding world,’ Blaise says.

Neville nods thoughtfully. ‘You should tell Hermione about this. She would like to help and she could. She’s in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, you know. She’s serious about getting more rights for the elves. Helping them in ways they want.’

‘That’s what Draco tells me too,’ Blaise grimaces. ‘But I wouldn’t like to deal with Mother _and_ Hermione at the same time. I’ll have to think about how to do it. Mother wouldn’t like being told what to do and we all know how much Hermione loves to tell people what to do.’

‘Good luck then,’ Neville says with a chuckle.

Blaise grins back at him, and as if remembering why Neville is even here in his home, his smile fades and he looks down at his cup. Neville takes a sip of tea, which is good and strong and just what he needs.

‘Have you always known … that – that you – that you want …’ Blaise groans, passing his hand over his face. ‘Salazar’s bloody balls, I have no bloody idea how to ask this.’

‘If you’re asking if I’ve always known that I like blokes, no, I didn’t know,’ Neville says, fiddling with the sugar bowl. ‘Not until last night …’

His friend considers him, his face carefully neutral. ‘What made you realise it last night? There was something … _special_ about that Muggle?’

Neville shakes his head. ‘Can we not talk about this? I don’t – I don’t want to think about it. Not now.’

Frustration contorts Blaise’s face for a moment, before he looks away. ‘I’m sorry. I understand. We’ll talk about it when you’re ready.’

Neville feels a twinge of annoyance. Why should _Blaise_ be frustrated? What could he possibly understand? What right does he have to sound so sanctimonious? Neville is confused enough; he does not need Blaise’s unreasonable expectations and probing questions, especially when _he_ has been keeping so much of his life from Neville.

‘I don’t owe you an explanation.’ The words leave Neville’s mouth before he can stop them.

Blaise stares at him, visibly surprised. ‘I know you don’t. I only … I want to know, because you’re my friend and … friends don’t keep things from each other.’

‘What?’ Neville scoffs, his ire well and truly stoked. ‘We don’t?’ He gestures mockingly to the grand kitchen around them. ‘This is the first time you’ve ever had me over here, Blaise. I’m your friend, but you’ve never asked me to come visit – not once. You didn’t tell me about your plant room either.’

Blaise blanches, his fist clenching on the table. ‘You didn’t ask! How would I know you’ll be interested in coming over? _You_ ’re always asking me to go over, and I thought that was what you wanted, and I only wanted to do what _you_ wanted. You didn’t say you would like to see my house!’

‘It’s not about the house,’ Neville snaps. ‘I’m talking about what you said – “friends don’t keep things from each other”. Let’s say I’ve always known that I were gay, that I’ve always liked blokes, and I didn’t tell you – so what? Do you have any right to chastise me when _you_ keep things from me all the bloody time? That’s your thing, isn’t it, Blaise?’

‘Hold your fucking unicorns – are you calling me a hypocrite?’ Blaise snarls, pushing his chair back from the table. ‘What have _I_ been keeping from you, Neville? Why is it suddenly _so_ important for you to know everything about me? I’ve always, _always_ answered anything you ask of me with honesty. You need only ask.’

‘How can I _ask_ ,’ Neville hisses, his fists clenched, ‘when I know that if I reach out, you’ll just throw it back into my bloody face and say I’m only fucking pretending to be your friend?’

Blaise flinches, as if Neville has hurled a jinx at him. He surges to his feet, his chair screeching on the tiles, and strides away. He stops at the island in the middle, turning around to face Neville again. His face is stricken.

‘Have you always held that against me?’ Blaise asks, his voice strangled. ‘What I said when I was eighteen.’

‘Don’t use your youth as an excuse –’

‘I’m not – I’m just saying that I was a different person. I’m not who I was at eighteen. I didn’t apologise for what I said because … I’m still too much of a coward to tackle it head-on. I thought I could _show_ you instead that I’m different now. That I’m not the horrid person I was then,’ Blaise is agitated, twisting his robes in his fists.

‘I was hurting. I was hurting really badly. It was … a whole bunch of stuff – the war, feeling as if I’m not good for anything other than my looks. Sex was the only thing that I could feel, and … I was so humiliated to have _you_ catch me doing something so dirty. You were …’ Blaise closes his eyes briefly. ‘You were somebody I saw as untainted. I couldn’t bear the thought of you thinking badly of me so I …

‘I decided to cut you off before you could hurt _me._ And in some ways, I wanted _you_ to hurt too, hoping that you could understand how fucked up I was, and – and maybe you could rescue me if you saw. But … you are far smarter and stronger than I am. And … you cut me off. Which I don’t blame you for – not at all. It was … right of you to do that. I thought … I thought I’ve been making amends for what I did, but – but you’ve always held that against me. I see that now.’

Neville shakes his head angrily. He jumps to his feet, sending his chair flying back with a bang. He stalks over to Blaise and seizes his arm. Blaise’s muscles are taut and tensed beneath his grip. The other man stares at him, wide-eyed with shock and apprehension. In their year of renewed friendship, they have never fought, nor shown the slightest bit of irritation at each other.

‘Don’t try to pin this on me,’ Neville says through gritted teeth, his fingers tight on Blaise’s arm. ‘I wanted to be your friend so badly – I was looking for you, afraid that you might think I didn’t want to be your friend anymore – and when I found you, you had only that bullshit to throw at me. No, don’t you _dare_ pin this on me, Zabini.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Blaise whispers. ‘I truly am, Neville. I didn’t know – I didn’t know that it meant so much to you. I should have thought of that – I’m sorry. Please. Please forgive me, Neville. I … I’m so sorry I hurt you.’

Blaise’s eyes are wide and soft and vulnerable. There is a tenderness within them that Neville recognises unexpectedly, because it is there when Neville is rambling excitedly about successfully splicing together two breeds of plants; it is there when Neville is whining about his family’s expectations; it is there when Neville is tired and worn out and the only person he knows can make him feel better is Blaise. _Merlin, how could I been so stupid?_

Neville is suddenly aware of how closely he’s standing to Blaise, and that he’s only dressed in a bathrobe. Blaise senses the change in the air, because he looks wary. He swallows nervously, not moving his arm away. He only looks at Neville, and he waits.

Neville looks at his friend, studying his beautiful, honest face, and asks: ‘Are you in love with me?’

And Blaise sighs, his whole body relenting as if he’s been waiting and waiting for Neville to ask this question and finally, he gets his release. He tilts his chin up, meets Neville’s eyes boldly, and says: ‘Yes. I’ve loved you since we were eighteen, and I love you more now than ever.’

Neville nods. That’s the only thing he can muster, because his heart is so full. His heartbeat is thundering in his ears, and his body must be melting, warm and soft as he feels. _I love you._ He exhales shakily and releases Blaise’s arm. Blaise watches his face, so still he might have been Petrified. Neville wraps his arms around Blaise, resting his chin on the taller man’s shoulder.

‘Please do not take this for a rejection,’ he says. ‘I … I need some time to think about … what last night meant. How could I have liked blokes all along and not know? I … I want to be fair to you. I mustn’t mess this up. But I’m not rejecting you. I just … I need to be careful, because you are important to me, and you mean … you mean the world to me, Blaise.’

Blaise’s body, which was stiff when Neville first held him, is now loose-limbed and yielding in his arms. His hands hold Neville by his waist. Neville feels Blaise’s chest push out against his when Blaise breathes in deeply.

‘Only you can make a rejection sound so lovely,’ he says with a sigh.

Neville pulls back, alarmed, but Blaise is smiling down at him, a tired smile nonewithstanding, but a smile nonetheless.

‘I didn’t think love should hurt until I met you. I thought that it should be something easy. Nothing that I need to strive for. Otherwise, how could it be called love? It should be light and fun.’ Blaise brings a hand to Neville’s face, stroking his cheek with the back of his hand. Neville shudders, biting his bottom lip. ‘I’m not saying that loving you is all gloom and doom, because … I didn’t have expectations. I thought you were straight, and I knew that nothing will come out of this. But I have your friendship, and that is enough for me.

‘Loving you and _knowing_ you have made me a stronger person – a better person. Someone my mother likes better at least. She calls you her benefactor, because you’ve changed her son to be a more moral person,’ Blaise chuckles, resting his hand on Neville’s cheek. ‘I still don’t know how to be that person in public, of course, but I’m learning. I know that I don’t need to hide, because if people like you can accept me, there isn’t anything _wrong_ with me … is there?’

‘Of course not,’ Neville whispers.

Blaise smiles, warm and brilliant. ‘See? Thank you, Neville, for being my friend. It’s enough that I can be by your side as a friend. That is all I ask for loving you. I don’t want you to think that I will force you to do anything, just because I love you. You can reject me, you know. I only ask that we remain friends.’

Neville puts a hand on the back of Blaise’s head and pulls him down. Their lips meet, soft, warm and dry. Neville smells sweat and alcohol on Blaise, feels the scratch of his stubble, hears the hitch in Blaise’s throat. Blaise’s hand has fallen to Neville’s neck, where his fingers large and hot press against Neville’s bare skin.

‘I told you,’ Neville says fiercely, pulling away before the kiss can go any further, ‘this is _not_ a rejection. I have to go. I should go. But I will owl you or Floo you, when … when I can. All right? This is not a rejection, Blaise.’

Blaise stares at him. ‘All right.’

Neville strides away, and pulls open the kitchen door to find the five house elves standing outside, gawping up at him. ‘Thanks for taking care for me last night,’ Neville says awkwardly. ‘Will someone tell me where my clothes are? I need to go.’

‘Yes,’ Emma says, looking past Neville’s legs into the kitchen. ‘I can take you, Master Longbottom.’

Neville looks over his shoulder. Blaise is watching him from where he remains by the counter, his hand on his lips. He smiles at Neville, a distant smile.

‘See you,’ he calls.

Neville hesitates, his gaze lingering on his friend, whom he has not seen so dishevelled, so unsure, and he yearns to comfort him. But he knows he’s doing the right thing, walking away for now. ‘See you,’ he echoes and follows Emma away.

 

* * *

 

 

**_iv. red roses_ **

 

The storm breaks with a crack of thunder. The sky, dark and heavy with iron-grey clouds, shatters with silvery lightning and sheets of rain. The wind howls with fury, ripping apart shrubs and saplings, battering houses and rattling windows and doors violently.

Within his greenhouse, Neville glances nervously at the glass walls. He shoves hair out of his eyes, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers, and grips his wand more firmly. He has been bent over the Wiggentree, trying to soothe its resident Bowtruckles, which are agitated by the powerful magical currents thrumming in the air with the storm’s descent.

The little creatures have somewhat calmed down, after his repeated whispered assurances that the greenhouse can withstand the storm. Their leader, a long, bulky Bowtruckle with particularly sharp fingers Neville calls Demon, shakes its fist indignantly at him and withdraws deeper amongst the leaves, taking his branch of Bowtruckles with him.

Neville exhales with relief. He’s a Herbologist; Newt Scamander, he is not. The Bowtruckles simply moved in a few weeks after he brought the Wiggentree home. He saw that as an advantage at first – the twig-like creatures are fastidious in protecting and grooming their home tree. He didn’t realise that it means he has to apply for their leave in order to do _anything_ to the Wiggentree. His hands are now rife with healing scratches and scars. But he can’t evict the Bowtruckles – Hermione and Luna would hex him.

He can’t blame the little creatures for being scared of the storm either. Even with his dull human senses, he can feel the unusual magical flows in the air. The glass walls are a blur of water; it looks as if the greenhouse is bracing itself against the might of a waterfall. But the strengthening spells he placed on the greenhouse – and his cottage – will hold. If the walls come crashing down, the damage to his plants would be irreparable.

Neville shudders to think about it, scanning the rows of plants. The Spiky Bushes are safely ensconced in the corner wrapped in sound-barrier spells, and the Snarfalumps are still sleeping peacefully with their tentacles lying in loose curls. The Shamurum Whispering Bush has quietened down to a murmur, thanks to the numerous soothing spells he casted. The greenhouse is quiet amidst the torrential storm.

The Weathermancers have been issuing warnings for the past three weeks. When wizards tinker too much with the weather, magic nudges nature into unstable territory and magical storms brew. They are usually nothing more than a bad squall, but this is said to be the worst magical storm to strike Britain in the past ten years.

Neville has been helping storm-proof Hogwarts; the massive, drafty, old castle needed as many hands as possible to get the place ready for the storm. He isn’t part of the staff, but he conducts most of his experiments in the Hogwarts greenhouses, some of them in collaboration with Professor Sprout. And sometimes, he substitutes for her in classes when she’s ill.

Professor McGonagall invited the residents of Hogsmeade to wait out the storm in the castle, which most have chosen to do, but Neville cannot leave his plants. There wasn’t enough time to transport them into the Hogwarts greenhouses.

When Ginny heard, she laughed and said: ‘Bloody hell, Longbottom, sure, go ahead and put your life in danger for your plants.’ She invited him to come along with her and Pansy to France, but of course, he can’t leave. Many of his friends are going overseas this weekend, and tried (and failed) to get him to go with them. ‘Better not to be here,’ they said.

But it’s only a storm – he knows his home can take it. His cottage is one of those stout, one-roomed relics that have stood in Hogsmeade since the village’s founding. He looks out beyond the shimmering walls at the blue, red and yellow sparks dancing in the blackness of the storm, glad to be indoors in the warmth and the light. Well, he’s done as much as he needs to at the moment – time for dinner. He turns away, flicking his wand to turn off the lights.

A dull _thunk_ reverberates through the glass walls. He whirls around, startled, wand raised. A dark figure is plastered against the glass, battered by rain. He turns the lights back on, and they shine upon a thoroughly unexpected face – Blaise’s. Bewildered, Neville stares, until Blaise gestures urgently for him to open the door, his face screwed up in a grimace.

‘Shit!’ Neville dashes for the door, hastily undoing the locking spells. Leaning his full body weight against the force of the storm, he opens the door a crack. His entire front is drenched in a second, cold needle-like rain stinging his face. Blaise slips in, and Neville shoves the door closed again. ‘ _Colloportus maxima_!’

‘You _are_ here,’ Blaise breathes and throws his arms around Neville, hugging him so tightly Neville can barely breathe through the force of his hug and his astonishment. ‘Thank Merlin. I was so s-scared. I was th-thinking of the worst s-s-scenarios, but you are _here_ and you’re safe, thank _Merlin_.’ His chest is heaving with exertion, his body trembling like a Flutterby bush.

‘It’s not that I don’t appreciate the hug, but … why _shouldn’t_ I be here?’ Neville asks, bewildered, wrapping his arms around Blaise.

He might as well, since Blaise presents him with such an opportunity. They haven’t met for a month since that Sunday morning, and Merlin’s beard, Neville misses the other man with an intensity that throbs day and night. Here Blaise is, real and heavy in his arms, and the relief Neville experiences startles him.

Blaise pulls back a little. ‘Pansy Floo-called me – told – told me that they can’t reach you. She said – she said that you refused to leave your plants, and she heard that there m-might be a few house collapses in Hogsmeade. I – I thought –’ he trails off when he sees the look on Neville’s face. ‘Oh.’

He tries to pull away, but Neville holds him in place.

‘She wasn’t technically lying,’ Neville says wryly. ‘They can’t reach me because I’m not connected to the Floo and an owl won’t get through this storm. And there _was_ a collapse in Hogsmeade – a rotten tree next to Old Trevor’s place. But she didn’t mention that she knows perfectly well where I am, because she and Ginny tried to persuade me to go to France with them. I think they were planning to take me to Saint Tropez … where _you_ were supposed to be.’

‘Oh.’ Blaise’s face is frozen. ‘I … I made a mistake. I’m sorry, I –’

‘Are you hurt? It’s dangerous, going out in this storm,’ Neville interrupts, his hands firm on Blaise’s arms as he examines his friend closely. ‘Did you get hit by any of those sparks?’

‘No, I cast a shield over myself before I Disapparated. I’m fine,’ Blaise says, looking down and avoiding Neville’s eyes. ‘Fucking hell, I feel like such a _fool_.’

He tries again to escape Neville’s gasp, but Neville holds him tighter. He puts a hand on Blaise’s chin, tilting Blaise’s face towards him. Blaise is exhausted; his weariness and misery clear on his face, any pretensions stripped away by his dash through the storm. Neville’s heart aches. _That bint Parkinson is going to get it from me._

‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he says simply. ‘Thank you for caring about me so much.’

Blaise scowls. ‘Haven’t I already told you I love you, Longbottom?’

Neville chuckles. ‘Let’s get you out of these clothes, yeah? You’re soaked to the skin. You can take a hot shower too, if you like. I’ll make us dinner – unless you’ve eaten?’

‘No, I haven’t. A spot of dinner would be nice,’ Blaise smiles at him tiredly. ‘Thank you.’

‘No problem,’ Neville grins. ‘You know where the bedroom is, yeah? Take any clothes you like. Most of those in the cupboard should be clean.’

‘Got it,’ Blaise pauses like he wants to say something more, but he shakes his head instead. ‘Thanks, Nev,’ he says quietly, his dark eyes unreadable. ‘I’ll get changed then.’

He pulls free of Neville’s hands, and Neville lets him go. As he slips past, Neville reaches out and touches his shoulder. ‘I _am_ glad you’re here.’

Blaise considers him for a long moment. ‘I know,’ he says with a perfunctory smile, and disappears down the hallway into the house.

Neville sighs, tapping his wand against his thigh. He was planning to owl Blaise when Blaise was back from Saint Tropez. He had an idea of how he would like this to play out between them, but Pansy and her meddling have to go and ruin it all. He’s worried about Blaise. He hates not knowing what his friend has been doing in the past month, but well, this is his fault. He’s the one who decided to create space between them. Necessary space, but space nonetheless.

He shakes his head. It wouldn’t have been fair to Blaise – or to himself – otherwise, if Neville should go in half-arsed, but he now sees that he should have been more considerate of Blaise. If he were in Blaise’s place … yes, it would have been maddening. Neville only hopes the space he created can be bridged.

He makes his way into the cramped kitchen. As he puts the kettle on, he hears Blaise rummaging in his bedroom. Ginny brought over some leftovers last night, which are leftovers from the weekly Weasley dinners. She couldn’t finish it, so she offloaded them onto Neville before swanning off to her holiday. He doesn’t mind; Mrs Weasley’s cooking is comforting home-cooked stuff – perfect for a stormy night. There’s mashed potatoes for tonight, and he puts sausages on the pan.

The storm is rattling the window set above the sink in the wall behind him, thunder a distant rumble, as Neville sets the table. The sausages are done, and the potatoes are warmed up. Neville places the steaming mugs of tea on the table, wondering what is taking Blaise so long.

‘Blaise?’ he calls, walking down the short distance to the bedroom.

Blaise is standing at the foot of the double bed that fills most of the room, his back to the door. He’s half-dressed, holding a jumper in his hands. He turns when he hears Neville, and Neville’s breath hitches in his throat at the sight of Blaise’s bare chest. He remembers perfectly well what Blaise’s half-naked body looks like from the shared showers at Hogwarts, but it’s quite a different matter seeing it now.

Blaise pulls on the jumper – a mustard-yellow nightmare Luna gifted Neville – hiding away his perfectly sculpted torso. Merlin, how unfair is that the bugger looks better in Neville’s own clothes than Neville does? Blaise Zabini honestly is one of the most beautiful men Neville ever has the privilege of knowing.

‘Sorry, do you need my help with dinner? It took me a while to dig through your mess,’ Blaise says with a teasing smile, jerking his thumb over at the pile of clothes heaped on the cupboard in the corner.

‘Oops,’ Neville forces a laugh. ‘I meant to get that tidied up this weekend. No, I was wondering what was keeping you. Come on, dinner is ready. I have some Mrs Weasley leftovers.’

‘Yum,’ Blaise says, following him back into the kitchen. ‘I love Mrs Weasley leftovers.’

Neville laughs, for real this time. ‘You _do_ love Mrs Weasley leftovers. You can’t get them in France, can you?’

‘No … there are a lot of things I can’t get in France.’

Neville looks over at the other man, his stomach twisted, but Blaise isn’t looking at him. He moves around to the other side of the table, making sounds of appreciation. ‘Bangers and mash,’ he is saying. ‘Brilliant – I’m starving.’

He pulls out a chair, looking up expectantly at Neville, who remains by the doorway. He’s in Neville’s jumper – filling it out nicely, instead of the way it hangs baggily on Neville, serving well enough to hide his belly – and sweatpants, looking more casual than Neville had ever seen him. Blaise is always in fancy, tailored robes, looking gloriously dramatic and wealthy. He wouldn’t don Muggle clothes out of choice.

‘It’s weird, seeing you in Muggle clothes,’ Neville says.

Blaise looks down, plucking at the jumper. ‘In a good way, I hope,’ he says with a laugh.

‘Definitely in a good way,’ Neville blurts, more breathily than he means to.

Blaise looks up and holds his gaze. There is faint confusion on Blaise’s face – and hope, but he looks away first, down at the plates. ‘Let’s eat – I’m about to faint.’

The kitchen is quiet, save for the clinking of their forks against the plates and the howling of the wind outside. It feels absurd, sitting across from Blaise, having dinner as if things are back to normal between them, because it isn’t, and after tonight, it wouldn’t be.

They talk as they always do: Blaise tells Neville about his travels – the new, interesting people he’s met, the Herbologists he’s been interviewing for Pansy, how his plant room is growing well; Neville shares with him the results of his experiments, the few classes he had to teach at Hogwarts, the drama with the Bowtruckles in his greenhouse. Their conversations flow as effortlessly as they always do between the two of them, and Neville finds peace in that.

It’s found in looking at Blaise, laughing freely at Neville’s Bowtruckle trouble as he scrapes up the last bits of mashed potatoes on his plate. It’s found in seeing Blaise, surrounded by the profusion of greenery in Neville’s kitchen, looking as natural and luminous as the earth. It’s found in reaching over to touch Blaise’s hand, and Blaise smiling, flipping his hand over so that their fingers intertwine.

‘I missed you,’ Neville says softly.

‘Me too,’ Blaise admits, tightening his grip on Neville’s hand. ‘So fucking much.’

‘I …’ Neville passes his other hand over his face. ‘I need to tell you something. Come on, let me clean up a bit, and we’ll take our tea into the living room.’

Blaise barks with laughter at the sight of Neville’s overcrowded living room. ‘Bloody hell, Longbottom! Are you housing every plant in the village?’

‘Well, some of the neighbours weren’t able to strengthen their greenhouses in time, and some of these plants _do_ require special care,’ Neville says with a helpless shrug.

His friend rolls his eyes, smirking. He takes his seat gingerly between a blooming Fergyle’s Fern and a cooing Grey Lady’s Mantle, wrapping his hands around his mug as he looks around at the green, rather humid living room. ‘You seem to be doing a good job. Where are your neighbours then? Why couldn’t they take their plants into their houses?’

‘Up at Hogwarts, probably,’ Neville says. ‘It’s more for the company than any danger from the storm, really. It’s nice being holed up during a storm, only if you have someone to do it with, don’t you think?’

‘And yet you were alone,’ Blaise reminds him, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugs. ‘But I don’t feel lonely.’

Blaise nods, grinning at him fondly. ‘That sounds just like you.’

His words reach across the room, where Neville sits cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the sofa full of refugee plants, and sink through Neville’s chest, gentle and warm. Neville looks at Blaise, his grin bright, surrounded by plants and dirt, and says quietly, ‘I love you.’

Blaise’s grin fades. He puts his mug down on a cramped side table, takes a deep breath, and looks at Neville. His dark eyes are searching, his hands clenched into fists on his lap.

‘As … a friend?’ he asks.

Neville cannot help but burst into laughter, stopping himself when Blaise frowns in affront. He wipes the tears from his eyes. ‘I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to laugh – it’s just … I’m quite ashamed of some of the … daydreams I’ve been having of you lately. No, Blaise, it’s not just as friends – I love you in every way possible.’ He pauses, sure that his face is bright red and hot, but he goes on anyway: ‘I want you as a lover. I want you as a boyfriend. I want you in my bed. Is that clear enough?’

His skin is prickly with embarrassment and apprehension. These aren’t the words he planned on saying, but these words are true all the same – and he mustn’t be shy about acknowledging them.

The past month was a trying one, not so much for his growing workload, but also the emotional upheavals he went through. It is never easy facing a truth about oneself, even if it were not intentionally hidden away. Growing up, things like sexuality and relationships and romance held little appeal for him. He had his parents to worry about and his demanding grandmother to attend to. School had been terrifying for him – he didn’t know to mix with children his own age at the start, and lessons were hard.

When his peers were noticing the appeals of sex, Neville hadn’t. Where the first war might have ended for others, it always went on for Neville every month he saw his parents. War had always been the center of Neville’s life. It was only with the end of the Second Wizarding War that there was room for anything else. As unbelievable as it sounds, Neville simply didn’t pause to think about whether he were straight or gay or anything in between.

His relationship with Hilde felt like that was the next step he should take, until he saw that it felt more natural to be friends with her than anything else. It wasn’t that he hated having sex with her either; it just wasn’t as stimulating as the thought of sleeping with a man – a thought he hadn’t allowed himself to entertain until the fateful encounter with the Muggle at Dean and Seamus’ party.

Too much alcohol in an environment where open queerness was celebrated, faced with a man he inexplicably found attractive, Neville’s walls had not so much crumbled as shattered with the force of a Whomping Willow. And what came rushing through were his suppressed feelings for Blaise. They have always been there, but he has never given them any consideration beyond friendship.

 _Blaise is different with you, haven’t you realised?_ Ginny said once.

 _So … what_ do _you think of Blaise?_ Pansy asked another time. _You know he thinks highly of you._

 _Neville, you shouldn’t be so kind to Blaise,_ Draco said. _He’s … weak against kind people._

Their friends had seen it. He’s the berk who couldn’t, who forced Blaise to come running through a dangerous storm to reach him. He looks at Blaise now, waiting for the other man’s response with more calm than he truly feels, but Blaise only looks as him, so still he looks like a status carved from onyx.

Neville gets up and goes over to the man he loves. Blaise draws back a little, his face half in the shadows. Neville kneels by him, takes Blaise’s fists in his hands and kisses his knuckles.

‘I love you,’ he says again, looking up at Blaise. ‘And I want to tell you that you don’t have to hide what you want from me. You shouldn’t have to wait for me to ask for you to say what you want. Believe me, Blaise, I will _always_ listen to what you have to say, but I can’t know what you have to share unless you tell me … do you understand? I will listen to you; you just have to tell me … Blaise, tell me what you want. Please.’

‘You. I want you,’ Blaise says, and he leans forward into the light, and Neville catches sight of his face open and honest and wild.

Blaise is throwing his arms around Neville, pushing him backwards, both of them falling with a _thump_ on the rug. He straddles Neville’s waist, his hands cupping Neville’s face, and he kisses him, hard and fierce. Neville wraps his arms around Blaise, kissing back as intently. His lips, his face, wherever Blaise touches him, are tingling, the sort of pleasurable fire that comes from being embraced by one’s lover.

When they part, breathless, Neville laughs: ‘Do I take this to mean you will be my boyfriend?’

‘Salazar’s snakes, Nev, do you think I’d say no?’ Blaise retorts. ‘I told you I was willing to be only a friend if that’s what it takes to remain by your side, remember?’

‘That was a month ago. I don’t know if your feelings might have changed,’ Neville protests.

Blaise cocks his head, looking at Neville with soft eyes and a slight smile. ‘My feelings for you have been constant for the past three years, despite every challenge you have thrown in my way – your supposed straightness, your ex-girlfriend, your obliviousness to my feelings. I’m not blaming you. I … Pansy thinks I’m an idiot for pining after you for so long, but I couldn’t … let you go. It would take more than a mere rejection for me to forget you.’

‘I told you – it wasn’t a rejection,’ Neville reminds him.

‘You didn’t write a month!’

‘Well, I just found out I like blokes!’

Blaise sniggers, leaning in to rest his cheek against Neville’s. ‘All right, all right, you win.’

Neville hugs him tightly, closing his eyes to revel in the warmth of his body against him. ‘I’ve been thinking of doing this for weeks.’

‘Get in line, Longbottom, I’ve been thinking of this for years,’ Blaise says, turning his head to press his lips against Neville’s cheek.

He shifts, and his lips are pressing against Neville’s. His hands are in Neville’s hair, running his fingers along Neville’s scalp and sending lightning down his spine. Neville tastes the tea in Blaise’s mouth as their mouths open and their breaths mingle and their tongues touch. There is a slight desperation to Blaise’s movements: the way he presses himself against Neville, the little sounds he makes, and the trembling in his body. They part, and Blaise slumps against him, panting in Neville’s ear.

‘You know, I’m still a little pissed that another bloke kissed you before I did,’ he whispers, his breath hot and wet.

‘Yeah?’ Neville lies with an arm loosely curled around Blaise’ shoulders, staring up dreamily at his shadowed ceiling.

Through the window, beyond the frills of a giant fern, he can see the storm raging on. The silvery lightning descends upon a world dancing with gold, orange and yellow sparks – magic running wild, magic running free – and he is here with his lover in his arms. He feels almost in a dream. This feels unreal: this state of dizzy euphoria.

‘Yeah, do you know how many times I’ve dreamed of getting you drunk and kissing you? I know how you can’t hold your alcohol. Merlin’s bloody balls, that guy went even further than I ever dared imagine too …’

Blaise is propping his head up on his hand, looking down at Neville with hooded eyes. Their bodies are flush against each other’s, and they can both feel their growing erections. Blaise smirks knowingly. He shifts to his side, and begins running his hand up and down Neville’s chest. Neville shivers, biting his bottom lip.

‘He sucked your cock,’ Blaise whispers, licking his lips. ‘But I can forgive him for that. If it weren’t for him … I wouldn’t have seen that little show you put on for me.’

Neville blushes, slapping Blaise’s arm. ‘Shut up! Godric, I wasn’t thinking straight, okay –’ he barrels on over Blaise’s ‘Clearly’ – ‘I was really fucking horny, and I just – oh, shut _up_!’ He swats Blaise’s arm again, but the other man continues snickering.

‘Merlin, the sight of you jacking off in front of me …’ Blaise’s hand stills on Neville’s belly, just above his groin. ‘That gave me wanking material for the entire month.’ He smirks lasciviously. ‘Your cock hard and leaking … your moaning … your –’

Neville doesn’t let him finish – he yanks him forward and kisses him. Heat and desperation are thrumming through Neville, rapid as his heartbeat. He holds Blaise’s waist, pressing his hard-on hard against him, moving his lips down Blaise’s stubble-covered chin and to his neck, where he sucks eagerly on the warm, soft skin. Blaise moans, his hand on the back of Neville’s head, his hips jerking against Neville.

‘ _Merlin_ ,’ Blaise breathes.

Neville pulls away, grinning down at his lover, who looks at him with dazed eyes. He trails appreciative eyes down the length of his body, pausing at the groin where Blaise’s cock is pitching a very large tent in the sweatpants. His grin turns into a leer.

‘Do you think,’ he says casually, reaching out to stroke Blaise’s cock through the cloth, causing the other man to gasp, ‘we should move to the bedroom?’

Blaise takes a few moments to respond, distracted as he is by Neville moving his hand up and down. He blinks, his eyes refocusing on Neville’s face. ‘Oh, fuck, _yes_.’

Neville grins, removing his hand. ‘Brilliant, let’s go.’

He sits up, but before he could get to his feet, Blaise flings his arms around him from behind. He pauses, surprised.

‘I love you,’ Blaise whispers into the back of his neck, sending shivers down his back. ‘I really fucking love you a lot, Neville. Forever and ever – I don’t fucking care how melodramatic this sounds. I know I will love you forever.’

Neville turns around in his arms, looks at the wetness in Blaise’s eyes, and feels his heart break a little. He places his hand on Blaise’s cheek, his thumb sweeping along the cheekbone. ‘I know, my love. You’re my best mate, and now you’re the love of my life too.’

Blaise laughs, dashing the tears from his face. ‘We’ve officially become one of those cheesy couples. If I weren’t so happy, I would hex the pair of us.’

Neville kisses him lightly on the cheek. ‘I’d help you.’

Blaise laughs more, shaking his head. ‘Come on, you said the bedroom?’

Neville gets to his feet, and he pulls Blaise up, the berk laughing as he stumbles on purpose into Neville’s arms. Blaise catches sight of something over Neville’s shoulder.

‘Red roses,’ he says with some surprise, nodding at the crystal vase of cut rose blossoms wedged behind a towering Mimbulus Mimbletonia. ‘That’s a little mundane for you, isn’t you?’

‘Oh,’ Neville says, blushing a little. ‘That’s for you. I was going to owl you once you’re back, and I wanted to give you something. I thought it would be romantic.’

Blaise looks back at him, now exceedingly surprised. He breaks into a brilliant grin. ‘Longbottom, you astonish me. It _is_ romantic. Thank you.’

He kisses Neville deeply. They break apart, breathless. For a moment, they simply look at each other, and Neville sees it, that look of unreserved tenderness. He feels as if his heart might explode beyond _Reparo_ from how much he loves this man.

‘Come on, let me thank you for the roses,’ Blaise smirks, tugging on Neville’s hand.

Laughing, Neville follows.


End file.
